Divergence
by Mir
Summary: Set during Kenshin's wandering years, this piece seeks to show his gradual transition from hitokiri to rurouni. A mixture of character sketches and actual plot.
1. Part 1

title: Divergence  
Part 1  
rating: pg  
author: Mir

Rurouni Kenshin was created by Watsuki Nobuhiro, published by Shueisha in "Jump," and produced by Sony Entertainment. All rights are theirs. I have no money to speak of, so suing me will not make you rich. This story contains spoilers for the OAV's and corresponding manga volumes.

AN: I know I'm in the middle of "Hanafubuki," but for som reason I felt a certain tugging, a persistent urge to write,something about Kenshin during the decade before the anime/manga opens. He's so patient and polite in the series..I'd like to show a somewhat rougher side of him and writ about his conversion from hitokiri to rurouni (for I don't  
believe that it happened overnight).

--------------------------------------------------  
With each passing day  
Memories begin to fade  
Still they stay with me  
--------------------------------------------------

Part 1

During the first turbulent years of the Meiji Era, scattered fighting still stained the countryside red as belligerent men from a defeated era raised their swords in defense of the only way of life they knew. For while they had held the highest positions underneath the Tokugawa shogunate, it seemed as though there would be little room for the same swordsmen within the newly-formed Meiji government. Warriors who had lived each day of their lives behind lethal precision of their curved blades now found their skills becoming increasingly burdensome to carry as officials and countrymen alike raised their voices in a unified cry for peace.

And into these confusing times walked a young man alone. Barely more than teenager, he wore his hair high on the back of his head, but instead of a samurai's daishou comfortably at his side, he carried a single blade so smooth that it appeared to be virtually new. His gi was dark blue in color, worn in many places but patched only twice. His expression was calm and his movements silent, but although his profile blended into the shadows as though it were as ephemeral as the setting sun, the solid set of his shoulders and the natural stance of his feet bespoke of a carefully-guarded inner confidence and unassuming self-assurance.

If eyes lingered on him as he quietly passed weary peasants on the empty roads, he seemed to take no notice of their observant gazes and low whispers. The sun and the dust battled for control of his hair -- the former wanting to bleach it blond, the later trying to shade it brown, and when at last a cease fire was reached, the result seemed to be a dusty orange. As for the deep scar on the left side of his face, the light skin burned and peeled underneath the unrelenting sun, then refused to darken even as the rest of his complexion tanned brown and roughened as the fierce winds swept down from the wide open sky.

He slept underneath the stars night after night so as to avoid close contact with the local villagers. And always, his footsteps carried him farther and farther away from Kyoto—farther each day from the epicenter of his past.

The air was still as he traversed the barren countryside. The farmers had already gathered their crops in from the fields, and the upturned earth rolled onward in dark waves across the hills. At one crest he paused, looking down first over the landscape and then letting his gaze drift back up into the gathering clouds. There was something in the air... Pregnant with anticipation, the sky sank heavily onto his shoulders, and the light scent of rain seeped into his nostrils with each deep inhalation. The was no mistaking the subtle hints of an oncoming storm.

The swordsman sighed, agitated that he would have to find a place to sleep that night. For as conditioned as he was to the elements, he was well aware that weathering such a storm unsheltered was one of the surest ways to throw one's health to the wind. One hand fell to the hit of his sword as he turned to face the direction from which he'd come. Although the rural countryside stretched onward as far as the eye could see, somewhere in his mind a persistent sense of direction that refused to roll over and die reminded the young man that back beyond the quiet terrain lay the bloodstained streets of Kyoto.

Even as he continued on his journey, hands tucked into his gi for warmth, he could still taste the sharp metallic flavor under his tongue and down the back of his throat. It seeped through his thoughts, a dull stream of red, forever dripping, dripping, dripping. He'd thought that the open countryside would have diluted the steady flow, thought that once removed from its source, the scent would fade. But it hadn't, not as he'd desperately hoped it would.

"Please, I require shelter." Light drops of rain clung obstinately to his hair and clothes, muting the bold shades of red and blue in the fading light. The rough wooden door was opened just wide enough for a slim, under-fed body to squeeze through.

The woman barely glanced up from her sewing as the young man was shown through to the fire -- distrust, fear, and anger creased into her wrinkled features. She said nothing. The swordsman accepted the cool reception as naturally as though he'd never been well-received by strangers. He didn't bow. "Thank you for your hospitality."

"The least you can do is tell us your name, son."

The red-haired man kept his eyes focused on the steaming bowl of rice before him, chewing slowly and meticulously as if to buy time before a response would be expected. "I am a ronin, nothing more. You may call me Himura." He lifted his chin, firm set of his jaw betraying his warrior's pride, and the old man nodded in silent acknowledgement of what was left unsaid.

"Very well, Himura-san, you may spend the night here." The woman's knuckles were white as she quickly buried clenched fists in her lap, and her discomfort hung visibly in heavy folds around her. "There's an extra futon in chest by the door." Her dinner lay virtually untouched before her, and she bowed her head to keep from meeting her guest's eyes.

The old man paused and glanced back over his shoulder to regard the guest one last time before turning in for the night. Himura Kenshin sat silently on the floor, staring into the fire's glowing embers. Bright reflections of red and orange illuminated his violet eyes. Thickly-lashed lids fell closed as he shivered. "Sleep well, Himura-san."

end of part 1

- - - - - - - - - -

Yes it's short, and no, I'm not entirely sure where it's going-but there will be a point sometime, I promise! And I justrealized that I said I was going to try to paint Kenshin a bit differently...it's coming, just not in this first part. The nex one(s) will be longer once I get a better feeling for where am. Comments are warmly welcomed! Especially for thisfic your feedback would be wonderful.

- Mir (09.12.01)  
.


	2. Part 2

title: Divergence | Part 2  
rating: pg  
author: Mir  
email: mir@despammed.com  
website: http://tfme.net/tfme/  
  
disclaimer: Rurouni Kenshin was created by Watsuki Nobuhiro,   
published by Shueisha in "Jump," and produced by Sony   
Entertainment. All rights are theirs. I have no money to speak   
of, so suing me will not make you rich. This story contains   
spoilers for the OAV's and corresponding manga volumes.   
Many thanks to maigo-chan for her manga translations.   
  
AN: Wow -- I had no idea that anyone would really want to   
read more of this piece...considering how vague the first part   
was ^_~. But anyhow, by popular demand, here's the second   
installment: I'm going to gradually (over this part and probably   
the next) make the transition into more concrete substance --   
plot, what plot? Oh right, yes, again I promise that I am   
thinking of a plot. If anyone has any suggestions... *j/k*  
  
--------------------------------------------------  
Morning dew dissolves  
As the sun rises above  
The long empty road  
--------------------------------------------------  
  
  
*Part 2*  
  
The new moon crept across the sky, barely more than a thin sliver   
of pale light swimming up current against the darkness. Stars drifted past   
in small clusters, each constellation solemnly paying its regards to the fledgling   
ruler of the expansive midnight heavens. And seated below in the damp   
grass sat a young hitokiri of the Ishin Shishi -- sword resting against his   
shoulder and each exhaled breath hanging momentarily in the air before   
him. He sighed tiredly, eyes closing as he leaned his head back against   
the rough wall of the farmer's hut.   
  
For just as the moon struggled against the age-old darkness, so did   
the new Meiji Government against uprisings of the past. Each day   
brought new conflicts, new struggles, and each confrontation sent more   
bodies to their final resting places beneath the earth. Soon the first frost   
of autumn would coat the landscape in glittering ice, and the ground would   
freeze solid for the duration of the winter months. If only the bloodshed   
could have terminated as assuredly....  
  
He reached down to the ground beside him, fingers scratching in   
the dirt and tearing dry blades of grass violently from their shallow roots.   
Why hadn't the fighting stopped yet? Why didn't people know when   
they'd been defeated? But even as he flung the fistfuls of sodden ground   
away from him, he knew the answers to his unvoiced questions, and   
eventually he slept.  
  
"Good morning, Himura-san." Behind the tall figure of the old man,   
the door remained slightly ajar, and as he spoke, the wind clasp onto the   
ends of his gray beard and hair, tugging them first in one direction and then   
the other. "The storm has passed, I see."   
  
The swordsman nodded, blinking sleep from his eyes as he slipped   
his hands into his gi to hide the dirt underneath his nails. Above him, a   
faint hint of pink tinged the underside of the passing clouds, and the black   
sky began to melt into a sea of yellow and orange. Dawn.   
  
Around the two men, the moment hung suspended in time, each   
second an eon of indeterminable length. The daylight strengthened,   
streaming downward and touching the fine layer of dew that had settled   
during the night. Spiders' webs strung from the uncut grasses trembled   
in the breeze, setting off cascade after cascade of minuscule rain showers,   
and ants, out for their morning constitutionals, hopped playfully from   
puddle to puddle.   
  
"There have been skirmishes in the villages to the south and west.   
I suggest you take the road to the east, Himura-san." The man did not   
look down as he spoke but rather stared vaguely out across his fields,   
eyes seeing images and scenes other than those currently before him.   
His hands tightened into fists at his sides, and he exhaled slowly, allowing   
the years of struggle and bloodshed fall away into the crisp morning air.   
The soft rustle of fabric was the only sign of his disappearance -- that   
and the hollow grating of the closing door behind him.   
  
With reluctance, the young man rose stiffly from the ground, grasping   
his sword loosely in one hand and brushing the grass from his gi with the   
other. He allowed himself a momentary glance back over his shoulder   
toward the house... then turned to contemplate the thin strip of dirt that   
threaded its way haphazardly eastward across the hills. Like himself --   
lacking purpose, direction -- it tumbled out toward the horizon, first   
twisting to one side, and then, with an apparent change of heart, abruptly   
shifting to a reciprocal heading. But there was no other choice, so he set   
off upon the eastern route.   
  
Although his feet had scuffed dust into the humid air with every step   
the day before, driving rain had turned the road into thick pools of viscous   
mud that clung stubbornly to his sandals and hakama. So he chose to walk   
across the barren fields instead. Above, the drifting clouds stretched   
elegantly across the sky, so numerous that they muted the clear blue of   
early morning with layered transparency. He waded through the grass and   
mud until the shadows shrunk into dots beneath the warm midday sun, and   
the dew had long since burned away into nothingness.  
  
In contrast to the rough wooden huts scattered randomly across   
the sleeping autumn countryside, the village clearly exhibited signs of   
inhabitance long before he neared its boundaries. Two children, barely as   
tall as a katana and oblivious to effects of mud, tossed a ball back and   
forth across the road, giggling each time it landing safely in small hands.   
They did not notice the approach of the stranger.  
  
"Excuse me. Are you from the village?" The girl, long hair sweeping   
across her face as she spun around in surprise at the low voice behind her,   
let the ball fall from her fingers onto the road. Eyes wide, she glanced first   
at the swordsman, then at her brother, nodding jerkily in response to the   
question.   
  
"Tell me, is there an inn where a wanderer could spend the night?"   
At the question, the boy, with reluctance, tore his eyes from the sword at   
the stranger's side. His clothes, although plain and coarse, were clean   
and in good repair, and his thick, dark hair shone brightly in the sun's light.  
  
"Yes, there's one in the village..." He hesitated as if unsure of   
whether to continue. "...but the innkeeper doesn't like men with swords."  
His gaze drifted back to the sakabatou, then quickly fell to the ground,   
and the boy chewed on his lower lip as he made circles in the dust with   
his heel. "She says too many people have died at the edge of steel."   
  
The trio stood together in silence with the packed dirt of the road   
beneath them, the grey-brown pattern of hibernating cropland rolling   
outward in all directions, and the thin heat of afternoon enveloping their   
bodies. The swordsman slipped his hands back into his gi as he faced   
the two children who refused to meet his eyes. They wouldn't have been   
any wiser if they had, for his features were held in a habitual arrangement   
of calm detachment, a mask revealing nothing. "I see... thank you."  
  
He could feel their eyes following him as he continued down the   
road. What they had been fearful to face head-on, they had no difficulty   
inspecting from behind. What did it matter; they were just kids.  
  
- - - - - - - - - -   
  
The courtyard appeared to be empty as he entered warily, but he   
lingered momentarily by the gate to be sure. When the only sounds that   
disturbed the silence were the rhythmic chirping of crickets, he let a slight   
smile cross his lips as he drifted toward the low wooden bench. Even   
within a crowd he had always been alone, but although he had grown   
weary of the inescapable isolation, he now embraced the solitude, using   
the time to reaffirm his inner vow toward atonement.  
  
"May I help you, sir?" The woman who stepped confidently into   
the stillness eyed the swordsman tensely, her voice low and her lips   
pressed tightly together as her gaze swept across his features and clothing.   
She tilted her head minutely to the side, squaring her shoulders as she   
waited expectantly for an answer.   
  
"I am a wanderer, willing to work for a night's room and food..."   
Extracting his hands from inside his gi, he bowed, a gesture executed   
stiffly in comparison to the fluid motion suggested by his stance and   
posture.   
  
"The last group of men with swords who passed through this town   
brought nothing but trouble with them, young man." She glared down   
at him, a comfortable arms-distance away, annoyance, not fear, in her   
eyes and challenge in her voice. "How can I trust that you'll be any   
different?"  
  
"I'm not looking for trouble -- only a place to spend the night."   
In his mind, he was already forming alternative plans, calculating how   
far he'd have to travel before he came to the next village and estimating   
whether he could cover the distance before nightfall. The cool breeze   
tousled his long hair, and unconsciously he reached up to brush the red   
bangs from his eyes. It was that innocent gesture, so contrary to the   
sharp penetration of his amber gaze, that convinced his audience.  
  
"I suppose..." The woman's voice trailed off as her eyes followed   
the swordsman's movement. "...never mind. Come with me. One   
of my kitchen-girls just up and eloped last week, and the work's been   
piling up ever since." She pivoted and without looking back, retraced   
her steps across the courtyard, muttering softly to herself as she walked.   
  
The young man, though, remained standing by the bench, his mind   
still processing the invitation. "Well, are you coming or not? I don't have   
all day to stand and around and wait for you." The voice cut through his   
indecision, an emotion so unfamiliar that it grasped his limbs like a   
constricting vine, anchoring him to the ground. In the dark alleys of Kyoto   
there had been no time to think -- it was kill or be killed.  
  
"Y-yes..." The quietly stammered response seemed to amuse her,   
and she placed a hand on the gnarled tree trunk by the porch, fingers   
tracing the deep grooves in the wood as she turned to regard her guest   
once more. He blinked, cheeks flushing pink as he at last uprooted his   
feet from the ground, and he followed her without further comment.  
  
"You can help with the dishes after dinner." She slid open the door   
to a small room, then stepped aside to allow him to enter. "Stay out of   
trouble until then... and leave your sword inside if you go out. There's no   
need for it here."  
  
His fingers brushed against the cool metal sheath as the woman   
spoke, and his unassuming silence was, for a moment, replaced by a   
suppressed flash of razor-edged intensity. Instinct, so deeply ingrained,   
was not easily discarded. He clenched his teeth together. "Thank you."  
  
- - - - - - - - - -  
  
"Hiroko-san was wondering if you were coming to dinner."  
A formless silhouette against the shouji, the dark-haired girl kept her eyes   
trained on the floor, her voice only barely penetrating the thin paper barrier.   
The purple tint of evening clung to her kimono, and elongated shadows   
swept across the wooden floor beneath her feet.  
  
"No... thank you. I'm not hungry."   
  
But instead of compliantly withdrawing, she turned toward him, one   
hand resting on the wooden door frame. "You should come and eat.   
There's already a place set for you. Hiroko-san sent me specifically to   
fetch you." It was evident that the girl wouldn't be easily dissuaded.  
  
The soft beat of rain muffled the silence, filling the empty space and   
dulling the light rustling of fabric. He appeared before her, pale face framed   
by trailing wisps of red hair and amber eyes glowing in the muted shadows   
of dusk. "Very well, if she insists."  
  
- - - - - - - - - - -  
  
In sharp contrast to the delicate trays and pottery before them, the   
men's uncensored conversation sliced jarringly through air, betraying the   
speakers to be natives to the sprawling rural countryside. Dressed in   
coarse, worn clothing, they were mostly uneducated men, farmers and   
traders who knew how to write their names but had never had much (if any)   
formal schooling.  
  
Their eyes lifted sharply from their bowls as the swordsman entered,   
each pair narrowing as they came to rest upon the sword at his side. In   
response, Kenshin sank silently to his knees before the open tray, gaze   
averted but back straight, left hand automatically removing the sword from   
his belt and placing it gently upon the ground beside him.  
  
In the hushed atmosphere, he calmly reached forward and grasped   
the chopsticks, saying nothing in response to unvoiced questions. Each   
man was a haze of ki to his left and right, front and back. Each was   
analyzed soundlessly and effortlessly as he reached with his other hand   
for the warm bowl of rice. Each man remained unaware of the quiescent   
meditative inspection.  
  
The door slid open, and the innkeeper entered, her eyes scanning   
across the heads of her guests, intently searching. They rested upon the red-  
haired swordsman whose slight form blended seamlessly into the darkness,   
and she scowled in reproach. "Himura-san."  
  
He jerked his head up in startlement, trying to recall if he'd given her   
his name back in the courtyard. And as she strode confidently to his side,   
he grasped the sword, unconsciously loosening it from its sheath. Around   
them, the background conversation withered into apprehensive stillness and   
he tensed underneath her looming shadow.  
  
"Himura-san, I asked you to leave that in your room." She'd barely   
raised an eyebrow at the grating sound of metal, barely blinked while the   
men around her anxiously held their breaths. Her eyes shifted to the object   
in question, the sword held firmly in the young man's left hand. "I'd   
appreciate it if you returned it now. They'll be no weapons at dinner."  
  
His eyes flashed brightly, amber locking with dark brown as he and   
Hiroko faced each other in silent confrontation. Although his mask of   
impassiveness disclosed neither feeling nor emotion, the whiteness of his   
knuckles and the tenseness in his shoulders betrayed the fine line he walked   
between rage and control.   
  
But then abruptly, as swiftly as it had arisen, the tension vanished,   
ruthlessly crushed beneath fresh layers of polite submission. "Yes, I   
understand." And willing himself to ignore impulse to turn and lash out   
at the men snickering behind him, he unhurriedly pressed to his feet, tucked   
the sword into his waistband, and soundlessly brushed past the innkeeper.   
Intent on preserving what little dignity he had left, he closed his eyes, the   
rapid beating of his heart filling his head and guiding his feet.  
  
  
*end of part 2*  
  
- - - - - - - - - -   
  
I'm so sorry that it's been months since I sent the first part out....   
I've been working on "Hanafubuki," you see? But I needed a   
break from that fic, so here I am. Oh, and btw, if you like the   
Hitokiri Battousai, you should definitely ready Naga's piece,   
"The Darkest Shadows, The Brightest Light." It's wonderful.  
*mir blinks in awe*  
  
  
- Mir (12.12.01)  
. 


	3. Part 3

title: Divergence | Part 3  
rating: pg  
author: Mir  
email: mir@despammed.com  
website: http://tfme.net/tfme/  
  
disclaimer: Rurouni Kenshin was created by Watsuki Nobuhiro,   
published by Shueisha in "Jump," and produced by Sony   
Entertainment, Media Blasers, ADV, etc. This story contains   
spoilers for the OAV's and corresponding manga volumes.   
Many thanks to maigo-chan for her manga translations.   
  
AN: Here's the third part... It's been a while coming, but then   
again, I've been distracted by a great number of things. If you   
haven't noticed, this piece is essentially a collection of isolated   
events meant to illustrate Kenshin's transition from hitokiri to   
rurouni. As far as I can tell there isn't going to be one big,   
overlying plot to bind them together. Each incident is a seperate   
step on the way to resolution.   
  
--------------------------------------------------  
Listen to the rain  
And we part with no regrets  
Walking to the sea  
--------------------------------------------------  
  
  
*Part 3*  
  
Abandoning the revealing light and staring eyes for the   
familiar solitude of darkness, the young man drifted soundlessly   
through the empty hallways while the rain pounded relentlessly above   
him. He paused at the doorway, glancing to either side to assure   
himself that he hadn't made a mistake, then lifted a hand to the wooden   
frame and pushed the shouji aside. Inside, shadows, like dusty cobwebs   
strung from wall to wall, lingered in the darkened corners, and the   
swordman's gaze instinctively swept along the perimeter before he   
entered. There was nothing to fear, for the room was empty.  
  
His brow creased in agitation as he shoved the panel closed an   
paced deliberately across the room. The air, although humid, was   
cooling, and the rising moon was but a thin sliver in the sky. The   
darkness settled on his shoulders as he sank heavily to the floor, and   
he slid the sword from his belt and leaned it against his left   
shoulder. The rhythmic rainfall rang in his ears, and he closed his   
eyes against in the incessant complexity of life.  
  
"Himura-san?" He'd taken note of the approaching footsteps   
long before they'd drawn near, his legs tensing underneath him as   
fabric rustled just beyond the door. Amber eyes snapped into focus,   
and cool instinct ruthlessly swept thought and emotion aside. When no   
response from within seemed forthcoming, the shouji was cautiously slid   
back, and the innkeeper entered with light footsteps and a laden tray   
balanced on her arm. "I though you were going to finish you dinner."  
  
He didn't glance up as she shuffled toward him, didn't respond   
as she placed the tray by his side. His open, staring eyes betrayed   
his alertness, but his blank expression contradicted the tenseness of   
his body. The innkeeper was not a woman easily fooled. Looming over   
him like a tall cliff above a rural village, she planted her feet   
firmly on the tatami and sighed. "I've seen many young men, many   
barely able to swing the swords they grip tightly in the dark. I've   
seen the countryside fall into poverty and the cities disintegrate into   
chaos. There are many forms of human suffering and many names for the   
same sadness." She paused but was rewarded only by silence. "Tell me,   
Himura-san what troubles you so."  
  
Eyes still focused on the invisible shadows that plagued his   
thoughts, he plucked impassively at his sleeve, ignoring the request.   
The candle in the woman's hand forced the darkness into retreat, and   
she lifted it above his head so that its light washed over his face and   
hair.  
  
"You needn't worry about the others. They're just uncultured   
ruffians with more brawn than brain. They don't know anything beside   
their dusty fields, and most can hardly even read."  
  
"And I suppose you're different." When he finally spoke, it   
was a soft whisper barely audible above the continuing downpour, and   
his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "I suppose you understand   
this suffering you speak of."  
  
"If I truly understood suffering, I'd be better off as a   
Buddhist monk, not a simple innkeeper." She smiled in amusement, the   
skin around her eyes creasing. "And those who do understand enough to   
cast aside desire... obtain enlightenment. Do I look like a   
Bodhisattva to you?"  
  
He finally lifted his eyes to hers, tilting his chin upward   
and squinting into the light. "You have questions on your mind." He   
held her gaze as the candle flickered between them, and it was he who   
looked away first. "It doesn't matter. Those who might answer your   
questions... cannot, and I am nothing but a wanderer."  
  
"A wanderer who carries a sword as if it never leaves his   
side? A wanderer with calloused hands and silent footsteps? One as   
you as you who doesn't fear the shadows?" Discarding the young man's   
evasion, she continued the interrogation with a tone bordering on   
rebuke. "I'm not an old woman yet, Himura-san, and I'm used to   
receiving answers when I ask questions."  
  
He pressed his lips together and exhaled slowly, hands resting   
on the sakabatou's sheath, but as the evening's dampness caught in his   
throat, he coughed and quickly reached up to cover his mouth. And even   
as his expression faded again into impassiveness, his cheeks flushed   
slightly in embarrassment. He suddenly found his lap quite   
interesting.  
  
The innkeeper knelt beside him, her stern insistence softened   
by gently maternal overtones. "You haven't been walking in the rain,   
have you?" She began to reach toward him as if to offer comfort, then   
stilled her hand as she realized that he'd only reject the familiarity.   
"That's a sure way to get sick."  
  
"Don't worry. I'm fine." The words, although concise were   
accompanied by a smile that was surprisingly warm, and for a moment, it   
seemed as though the young man's eyes shifted from amber to blue --   
although perhaps it was only a trick of the candle light.  
  
Again, the two sat in silence listening to the sounds of the   
rain and each other's breathing. Neither moved, and no one disturbed   
them. "My son was a swordsman in Kyoto. He was young and hot-headed   
but skilled enough with his sword to make people listen to him." She   
paused and tried to catch her guest's eye, but he stubbornly refused to   
meet her gaze. "He was devoted to the path of bushido and lived it   
every moment of his days. We didn't talk much, but I recall something   
he told me once: a lesson to be gained from heavy rain -- away from   
your home you meet a shower. You dislike getting wet, so you hurry   
along the streets running under the eves. Still, you get wet all the   
same. As long as you accept that you will get wet, you won't suffer   
from being wet." She stopped abruptly at the final syllable, her voice   
strong but her eyes trained on the tatami beneath her.  
  
"I ask you again, Himura-san, what trouble you so? What is   
the nature of your suffering?"  
  
And when he couldn't keep silent any longer, he told her.   
Against his better judgment, he opened his past and laid it bare at her   
feet. Years of suppressed emotion poured into his words as he   
whispered tales of slaughter and bloodshed. "So now you know the   
truth." He hadn't given the complete story, of course. There are   
parts of one's soul that can never be shared through words or images,   
but only through the raw, uncensored channel of emotion. He had no   
intention of opening himself that fully to anyone, especially not a   
stranger, especially not a woman.  
  
"It's as I suspected then." She nodded to herself, eyes   
closing. "I saw you once in Kyoto, you know. It was on the eve of the   
Gion Festival, and you were walking with Katsura-san. It must have   
been the night of Ikedaya." There was hardly a need to continue. She   
had merely seen the pair, recognized Katsura, and filed the image of   
his companion away for future reference. She expected no response.  
  
When she lifted the ceramic lids on the neglected tray, the   
food underneath was still warm. "Come, eat now. You can help the   
girls with the dishes when you're finished." She drew herself up from   
the floor and smoothed the creases in her kimono as she turned and   
retreated to the door.  
  
"Thank you, Hiroko-dono. You've given me more than I   
deserve." The room was empty; she had long since disappeared.  
  
- - - - - - - - - -  
  
"Must you set out again so soon?" It was barely past dawn,   
and a thin layer of clouds still lingered in the sky as a reminder of   
the previous night's storm. The road was empty as far as the eye could   
see. It stretched outward in both directions, rolling with the hills,   
more of a crease in a landscape than a scar cutting across it. "Won't   
you at least stay one more night?"  
  
Standing beside him, she was his equal in height, and the wind   
embraced them both in its cool intangible arms. "The season's waning.   
Soon it will be winter... and I must keep traveling." He didn't   
explain that he'd have to halt his travels once snow covered the   
countryside, didn't explain that he was still too close to Kyoto for   
his mind to be at ease. He didn't explain, but somehow he knew she   
understood.  
  
"At least accept this... to aid your journey." It was a small   
bundle neatly wrapped and tied. "And remember the rain. No matter how   
quickly you run, you can not avoid getting wet." They faced each other   
in the dirt as the sun gained strength and confidence overhead.   
"Farewell, Himura-san. I don't believe we shall meet again." As   
before, she was the one to leave, the one to turn and walk away without   
hesitation in her footsteps.  
  
"Goodbye Hiroko-dono." His eyes rested upon her retreating   
form for a moment longer, then he too turned to leave and oncee more   
took to the road without a backward glance.  
  
- - - - - - - - - -  
  
His feet carried him south away from the hills that rose up into   
snowcapped mountains, away from the fast-approaching winter.   
As much as he wished to go east, he followed a route to the western   
coast, determined to continue traveling as long as the weather allowed.   
Sometimes instead of stopping, he traveled by night as well as day,   
his gaze tracing the timeless patterns of stars above while his mind   
recalled the tales he'd heard of them.  
  
He wished he could have thanked the innkeeper for her gift, for   
with the blanket and hard traveling cakes he had been able to pick his   
route without relying on farmers or villagers for food and shelter. But   
she was right. The inn was too close to Kyoto, and he wouldn't be   
returning -- at least not for quite some time.   
  
He was nearly at the ocean when the snows finally caught him.   
Even as he trudged through the fine white powder, he could almost   
smell the salt in the air, almost hear the crashing of the waves. It had   
been over a year since he had last seen the vast expanse of green-blue   
water stretching endlessly before him, and he was anxious to lay eyes   
upon it again.  
  
Nestled among rock and long beach grasses, the wooden hut   
was no more than a brown blur in the distance, and yet it was the only   
sign of human habitation within the winter landscape. Smoke rose in   
a thin stream from its roof, and as he neared, the young man could see   
that the footsteps leading from the hut to the water's edge were those   
of a man walking slowly despite the inescapable chill.  
  
Winter had arrived, and he couldn't travel farther, so he stopped by the   
door and knocked.  
  
  
*end of part 3*  
  
- - - - - - - - - -   
  
This is it. Part three is finally over. Most of it was written in   
a car on a clipboard, and I've been meaning to type it up and   
finish it for quite some time. Let's see... "Ikedaya" is next, and   
then I'll turn my attention back to "Hanafubuki" and get the   
nineth part out.   
  
- Mir (01.20.02)  
. 


	4. Part 4

title: Divergence | Part 4  
rating: pg  
author: Mir  
email: mir@despammed.com  
website: http://tfme.net/tfme/  
  
disclaimer: Rurouni Kenshin was created by Watsuki Nobuhiro,   
published by Shueisha in "Jump," and produced by Sony   
Entertainment, Media Blasers, ADV, etc. This story contains   
spoilers for the OAV's and corresponding manga volumes.   
Many thanks to maigo-chan for her manga translations.   
  
AN: It's been an embarassingly long time since I've updated any of my   
stories, this one especially.  
  
--------------------------------------------------  
We met in the snow  
As only wary strangers  
Until we parted  
--------------------------------------------------  
  
  
*part 4*  
  
  
Himura Kenshin -- clothes creased and dusty from traveling, small   
bundle slung casually over one shoulder, sword thrust through his obi   
at his left hip, and red hair falling into his eyes -- stood before the   
wooden hut and stared the door as if contemplating whether or not to   
knock. He breathed in the winter air, salty from proximity to the sea,   
and listened to the crashing of the waves behind him. The wind blew   
incessantly, pushing him first in one direction then pulling him in   
another. So he placed a hand on the door frame and called out a   
greeting.  
  
The speed of the fisherman's appearance suggested that the he had been   
waiting by the door for the visitor's announcement. He squinted eyes   
almost lost in an intricate network of creases and reached up with one   
hand to stroke his beard with scarred and arthritic fingers. "It's too   
late in the season to be traveling, young man," he scolded as he pushed   
the door open further and retreated back toward the warmth. "Well, I   
suppose you'll have to step inside."   
  
And so the visitor accepted the lukewarm invitation and entered through   
the doorway into the dry semi-darkness of the interior. Although the   
room contained little furniture, and both walls and floor were   
undecorated, a warm fire burned in the hearth, and the agreeable scent   
of cooking rose from the rough ceramic pot balanced above the orange   
flames. Scattered here and there were signs of the fisherman's trade.   
A half-patched net was spread before the fire, and nearby lay a basket   
of long fibers that would one day be braided into rope.  
  
"You're lucky to have passed this way. The snow will be halfway to   
your knees by morning." The old man turned back to the fire without   
further comment, bent over stiffly with hands on his knees for support,   
and poked at the contents of his pot with a gnarled wooden spoon. His   
hair, pure white and pulled into a low ponytail at the base of his neck,   
was illuminated by the irregular flickering of the flames, and as he   
brought the spoon to his mouth the motion cast long shadows on the bare   
wall behind him.  
  
"Your hospitality is generous," The swordsman said with gratitude,   
standing with his back against the closed door, "but I regret I haven't   
anything to offer in return." Although his eyes were focused on his   
host's hunched form, he was more observant of his surroundings with his   
other senses than most men are with sight alone. At his back, the   
ferocity of the approaching winter storm tore across the coastal   
landscape, ripping grass from the ground and snapping naked branches   
from the trees. At his front, the pulsing glow of the fire warmed his   
cheeks and hands, and the soft crackling of burning wood dispelled any   
threat of utter silence.   
  
Apparently satisfied with the results of his culinary endeavors, the   
old man straightened slowly with one hand pressed against his lower   
back and the hint of a smile subtly gracing his features. "As you may   
have guessed, I don't get many visitors-- especially not during the   
winter months."   
  
He motioned for his guest to place his possessions by the door and   
approach the hearth, and when Kenshin stood at last beside him, he   
bowed his head with measured politeness. "I am Shohei... my ancestors   
had been living off of these waters well before the Bakufu came to   
power, and it seems as though I have outlasted them as well. The gods   
have provided well for us, and every day I give my thanks." Although   
he played the role of the gracious host, his tone was laced with covert   
rebuke.  
  
The guest had left the sword by the entrance, but his left hand   
twitched at his side as if desiring to stroke the smooth sheath for   
reassurance. Kenshin returned the old man's movements, his hair   
falling into his eyes as he bowed his head forward. "Himura Kenshin.   
I am a wanderer, nothing more." Carefully hidden, almost unperceivable,   
was the trace of regret in his voice. Although it had been his   
unconscious mind that had grasped his vocal chords, it was his   
consciousness that strained to make sense of feeling.  
  
If the fisherman's eyes narrowed at the unequivocal denial of   
connections, he made no comment. Custom demanded that he duly respect   
the swordsman before him, but at first glance the red-haired stranger   
seemed more boy than man despite the haunted shadows in his eyes.   
"Sleep here until the storms pass. There is food enough for us both,   
and it's dangerous to travel while the snow still falls."  
  
- - - - - - - - - -   
  
He sat cross-legged against the wall, a single candle burning by his   
side and a fishing net spread haphazardly across the floor before him.   
Carefully, he tugged on the coarse thread, closing the ragged hole with   
large, irregular stitches. And to his left, leaning over his shoulder,   
the fisherman supervised the repair with his brow knitted in   
concentration and his arms folded solidly across his chest.   
  
"Better… better…." A curt nod accompanied the mumbled words, and the   
twitching of the creases around the old man's mouth hinted at a rare   
smile. He held his hand down, palm upward, fingers spread wide, and   
Kenshin reluctantly relinquished his handiwork. But he didn't lift his   
eyes as the fisherman pulled the netting upward from his lap and traced   
rough fingers across the repairs.   
  
"… but your stitches are still far too irregular. If I were to use   
this net as it is now, it would undoubtedly catch and tear; all your   
work would be for naught."   
  
For a moment, a hot thread of anger sliced across his mind, but almost   
as suddenly, it was gone, suppressed by years of habit behind the calm   
mask of indifference. He didn't know why he had stayed, why he'd   
agreed to help the fisherman in exchange for food and board. Every day   
he told himself that he'd leave by nightfall, and every night he and   
his host sat silently side by side before the fire.   
  
When they talked, it was about the ocean, the land, the coarse dirt,   
and the falling snow. Like the steam that rose up between them when   
they melted snow for bathing water, they distanced themselves from the   
future and the past with an intangible curtain. It was as if life had   
only begun the night the wanderer sought protection from the snow. And   
so the cycling winter days passed.  
  
- - - - - - - - - -   
  
Like dancers intoxicated by the steady rhythm of music, the grass   
swayed back and forth in the wind, the same wind that sent shivers   
tingling up and down his arms and legs as he stared at the ocean and   
contemplated the clouds. The inevitable rotation of the earth had once   
again brought spring back to Japan, but although the sun rose earlier   
with every passing day, the air had yet to shake itself entirely free   
from the chill frigidity of winter. The ground was hard and dry   
beneath him, but the clouds hanging low in the sky were a clear   
indication that spring rains would soon coax forth the verdant foliage   
to carpet the landscape.  
  
As he rested his arms against bent legs, he listened to the   
uninterrupted patterns of the surf collapsing against the sand. And so   
he waited, waited for that intangible feeling of contentment or   
fleeting moment of revelation. But although the morning sun continued   
to rise in the clouded sky, nothing happened save the continuous   
passage of time.  
  
"Would you mind if I joined you?" The old man, making his way slowly   
across the uneven ground, turned his face instinctively toward the   
ocean and squinted into the wind. At his guest's nod of approval he   
sank cross-legged into the grass beside him. He reached up and   
absently scratched his chin as he lost himself in the movements of the   
water.   
  
Steadily the morning dew evaporated from the ground, and birds   
returning from the south filled the air with songs of courtship and   
homecoming. And as if in response, the fisherman's hand fell to his   
waistband where tucked against his thigh was a long flute cut from a   
single reed. He rubbed his fingers up and down its length along ridges   
worn smooth from wear, and at last, with hesitation it seemed, he   
brought the instrument to his lips.   
  
The notes rose into the air, dangling loosely from each other in a   
melody both sad and haunting. Kenshin listened, half with his ears,   
half with his memory, as images from the past years fluttered through   
his mind. The tune seemed familiar somehow as if he'd heard it one   
night falling from a balcony under the stars. But no images of the   
location came to mind.  
  
"You know what they say about the flue…" As abruptly as the music   
began, it stopped, and the old man rested his arms across his folded   
legs as he once again gazed at the water. "…they say that the reed,   
full of homesickness for its birthplace, sings its song in the hope of   
one day returning." He exhaled softly. "It may travel as you do, but   
it always knows its way home." He paused, as if dredging words up from   
the depths of memory. "Everything, everyone has a home, Himura-san.   
We all have that one place we long to return to… only sometimes we   
can't find it until we look."  
  
The younger man said nothing in response, merely clenched his teeth   
together and stared stubbornly over the water. Surrounding him, the   
humming of insects filled his ears with noise, and his hands were   
buried deep in clumps of new spring grass.  
  
"You'll need new shoes when you leave." Embedded in the seemingly   
innocuous comment were words heard though left unspoken. '…as you may   
have far to travel before your journey ends, and you may walk many   
roads before you finally return home.' Their eyes met briefly, then   
each turned away, lost in contemplation.  
  
"But how do you find a place that no longer exists?" He muttered   
bitterly as the fisherman finally rose to leave. "How can you return   
to a place you barely even remember? To memories that are as vague as   
dreams…." The complaint, sometimes thought but never voiced, floated   
between them, then crumbled like dust.  
  
"Everyone finds a way, sooner or later if they are honest… and the gods   
are merciful." And then he was gone, nothing more than a blurred   
shadow retreating steadily from the shore.  
  
- - - - - - - - - -  
  
As the night once again faded into dawn, Kenshin rested with his back   
against the wall, sword propped against his left shoulder. Too   
restless to sleep and too tired to keep his eyes open, he dozed,   
slipping back and forth across the fine line between the conscious and   
the unconscious. A shadow fell across his face.  
  
And even before his mind registered what he hand was doing, his sword   
was halfway from its sheath, and his legs tensed underneath him,   
preparing to attack. His eyes snapped open, and he struggled to focus   
on the dark shape that suddenly loomed by his side. Instincts flooded   
his thoughts like water breaking from a dam, and his heartbeat pounded   
in his ears.  
  
"Easy, easy… it's just me." Although his tone was these, the fisherman   
didn't panic as he quickly placed a hand over his guest's to halt his   
movement. Their eyes met for one brief moment, and then both looked   
away, one out of respect, the other out of shame. "You'd better leave   
early if you hope to find shelter this evening."  
  
'Why am I such a danger to everyone around me?' With his eyes on the   
ground and his cheeks pink with embarrassment, the swordsman rose and   
turned toward the door. But a firm hand on his shoulder stopped him.   
  
"Wait." And there was no questioning the command. "I've cooked food   
for you to travel with, enough to last two days at least." Still, they   
averted their eyes. "And shoes… take these, I insist. He grasped the   
younger man's arm so hard that his fingertips were white. Then   
wordlessly he shoved a long object into the boy's hands – a reed flute,   
newly made and still rough beneath his fingers. "Never forget why   
you're traveling."  
  
And they parted, more than acquaintances, not yet friends, two solitary   
figures bowing hesitantly to each other ankle-deep in morning dew.   
  
  
*end of part 4*  
  
- - - - - - - - - -   
  
I've been sitting on the first part of this chapter for ever and only   
now have gotten around to finishing it. I'm not sure what I'm going to   
work on next.... I just haven't had much time for writing lately. But   
I got my own domain! I'll try to finish Hanafubuki this academic year   
^_~.  
  
  
- Mir (10.10.02)  
. 


	5. Part 5

**Divergence  
**By Mir 

--------------------------------------------------

I bet you never thought I'd come back to this story... Well, I suppose weirder things in life have happened. I predict this particular episode will last 2-3 parts. It really depends on how the mood strikes me

--------------------------------------------------

Part 5

From that point he turned inland, having had enough of the salt in his hair and the sand in his eyes to last him for half a decade at least. And as he walked with his back turned deliberately toward to ocean, the cool spring nights steadily sank into dense summer days, and he slumped beneath the thickening humidity and dreaded the oncoming rain. There was no respite from the sticky coating of sweat that clung to his chest and beaded on his forehead, no relief from the unrelenting heat and sunlight that stretched between the villages scattered haphazardly across the countryside.

Each, he noticed with surprise, had its own particularities, and although all followed the same basic agrarian rural lifestyle, each emitted a slightly different aura, like each individual in a crowd of people jostling and pushing their way through a crowded street. And just as the colored patterns of their kimono and hakama condense into an indistinguishable collage of clashing geometrics, so did his hours blurred into days and days into weeks.

Some nights he sat alone in the flooded rice fields beneath the stars, slowly rubbing his fingers up and down the flute's rounded surface, brushing it softly against his lips, then with an inward sigh, soundlessly lowering it again to his lap. Other times he passed the dark hours beneath the thatched roof of a simple farmhouse, stomach pleasantly full from the evening meal offered without hesitation, reserve, or the expectation of anything in return.

"Sessha…" He'd murmured in a voice that still betrayed his gratitude and disbelief. And they'd in turn dismissed his archaic politeness as the eccentricity of boy coming of age alone in a country awash with change. It became increasingly subtle, of course, as he traveled farther from the urban centers and coastal ports, a gentle feeling that nonetheless tinged the air and flavored the water. Nothing was completely immune from the rolling tide of modernization.

But where, only months ago, he'd felt annoyance, almost anger at the ignorance of his hosts to the microcosm that was Kyoto and the desperate battles upon which the fate of the nation had been hinged—a calmness was settling somewhere deep inside his chest, a whisper that softly reminded him that this was as things should be. This was what he had, in truth, fought for.

----------

It was almost evening when he stumbled into the village, a small jumble of houses nestled in the foothills of the mountain. "Stop by Koyama," a passerby had advised the day before as the two travelers had shared water and information beneath the scorching midday sun. "They always have room for a traveler in need." The other man had gestured back toward the way he'd come as Kenshin stood quietly by. "They even gave me two days' provisions for the road," he'd added as they'd parted ways. And so, with nowhere better to go, the wanderer had followed the stranger's advice and continued along the dusty road with the slant of afternoon sun in his eyes and the lingering melody of a flute in his ears.

It had seemed like a decent idea at the time, but as he neared the settlement's edge, he sensed a hint of bitterness hanging over the area like fog trapped in the bottom of a gully. It was muted, unthreatening—but at the same time, undeniably present. 'Perhaps I've strayed too close to Kyoto again', he thought to himself as he swallowed dryly against the dehydration of exposure on the open road. 'I should have continued north instead.' But despite the unease that nibbled at his senses and fluttered through his stomach, he could think of no rational reason to avoid the village save for the shadows conjured forth by his ever-cautious mind. In the end, it was his stomach that won the battle.

Even before he reached the settlement, the road began to slant upward toward the fading sunlight as if reaching skyward to brush against the disappearing rays. But he walked with his gaze trained on the increasingly rocky ground before him and barely noticed the carefully-cultivated cherry trees that demarked the path—their gnarled trunks silhouetted indistinctly against the encroaching darkness. Twice he almost lost a sandal to the stones jutting irregularly from the incline—and almost missed the first dwelling entirely, so well-hidden it was amongst the delicate lace of overlapping maple leaves. The structure, visible behind the flat-topped wooden gate, hunched low to the ground as if hugging the mountain beneath its thick grass-thatched roof.

He'd lingered beside the open gate—that firm, unmoving stance betraying none of the hesitation that chained his hands immobile to his side. And at last, just as he reluctantly raised a clenched fist to knock against the wooden post, a young man, no older than himself, appeared before him. Their eyes met, and they stood, locked inexplicably in each others' gaze for a moment that might have well been an eternity.

"We have no room for visitors." The would-be host was first to break the silence. "My apologies." His voice caught in his throat, and he averted his eyes as he struggled to sound sincere. And despite the poorly-delivered lie, the visitor would have willingly turned away again, too proud to disgrace himself by asking for shelter when it wasn't freely given. He inhaled deeply, apologies of his own hovering on the tip of his tongue.

"Wait…" The soft exhalation caught him mid-step as he turned silently to leave. Almost like a sigh of the wind, the single word fell on his ears just as they registered the rapid patter of approaching footsteps. "…it's okay. Please stay the night." She stood silhouetted in the doorway, hands side by side clutching a rice-paper lantern before her, white-socked feet pointing slightly inward toward each other. But beneath the soft pink of her kimono, the firm set of her shoulders betrayed her determination though her gaze remained downward and half-hidden beneath stray wisps of soft black hair.

He hesitated, uncertain whether or not to accept the invitation—unsure of the motive behind it. The warm golden glow of the lamp tugged at him, urging him to give into his hunger and exhaustion and rest. And yet—"That's very kind of you, but I can't…" he replied at last, the protest sounding weak even to his own ears.

The boy continued to eye him, not with outright hostility or aggression but rather a solemn wariness and ingrained scowl which contorted features that otherwise would have been almost handsome; it an expression worn perhaps more out of habit than conscious thought. At long last, he finished his appraisal and disappeared back inside the gate without further comment.

And the two remaining shadows, dark blurs against the flickering lamplight and last vestiges of the setting sun, silently faced each other, eyes betraying none of the nervousness of their rapid heartbeats. "My brother…" She was the first to speak. "…please excuse his rudeness." She shifted her weight from foot to foot as she knotted and unknotted her fingers together against the lantern's handle. "These are just difficult times, you see…" And with a short, breathless laugh she finally met his eyes with hers. "This village used to be widely known for its hospitality."

He watched her out of corner of his eye as she worked though her nervousness through fidgeting. His master had cured him of that habit long ago. "I understand." He forced himself to smile, to draw the corners of his mouth upward and let the lines of his face soften into an expression that he'd filed away as being reassuring. The breeze at his back brushed stay strands of red across his vision

----------

The room was small, just a few paces wide and not much longer, but the sliding doors opened out onto the narrow wooden deck that encircled the garden contained within the center of the dwelling. The wooden panels had been worn smooth over the years by the quiet shuffle of socked feet, and the garden, two steps down, was cool and dark. As he stood in the doorway, hand resting absently against the doorframe, the darkness gradually became awash in soft lamplight as first one, then two, then three lanterns illuminated the night scenery. From somewhere on the opposite side of the enclosure came the comforting sounds of cooking preparation, and from the darkness, the continuous buzz of summer cicadas.

"…traitor." The word sliced through the quiet like a knife through water. It was followed by a stream of indistinguishable murmurs that rose and fell in pitch.

A pause. Then a second voice, female. "…no choice but to…" Snippets of conversation, a word here and there, frustratingly vague with no context to explain them. Kenshin pressed his lips together as he stared out into the garden. The landscaping was more extensive than the limited lamplight suggested, and carved posts of a bridge at the edge of his vision hinted at the manicured expanse that would become visible in the daylight. Everything was meticulously tended with a skill that characterized the past era more than the one that was just dawning.

"There's time for a bath before dinner." Though his mind had registered the approach of footsteps along the hall behind him, the voice was unfamiliar, and when he turned away from the garden landscape, it was an older woman, plainly-dressed with salt-and-pepper gray hair who returned his gaze. "If you'll follow me, sir."

It was easily apparent from the house's function layout and the simplicity of the decoration that its owners cared more for the garden than the interior. Nevertheless, the tatami, through worn, were swept clean, and the paper shoji had been recently dusted and repaired. The bathroom likewise was plain yet clean, and as he closed his eyes and submerged himself in the steaming water, he was at a loss to recall the last time he had stayed in such comfortable surroundings.

----------

It wasn't until after breakfast the following morning that he finally had the opportunity to explore the grounds that had inexplicably been calling him since he'd squinted out into the lamp-lit darkness. As would be expected, the landscaping was more casual than the expansive strolling gardens so prevalent in Kyoto. Paths gave way to secluded groves which dead-ended into overgrown tangles of branches and weeds. It was as though a pragmatic gardener had mentally laid-out the boundaries of his jurisdiction and resigned himself to letting nature take hold of the rest. By far, the most impressive feature was the summer hydrangeas. Blue and purple against their dense greenery, from some angles they dominated the layout, while from others they merely accented it with unexpected blushes of color.

He found her seated on a bench in the far corner of what could be considered tended grounds. Part-garden, part-nature, claimed completely be neither, it was as though someone had deliberately let the grove be consumed by the natural progression of seasons, then stubbornly tried to reclaim it for human use. "What do you think of our gardens?" She inquired as though unsurprised that he'd stumbled upon her personal spot. "Are they to your liking?"

"They're lovely," he replied, voice tinged with a touch of embarrassment. For all his years in Kyoto, he'd never learned the erudite terms that one was supposed to use for complementing such things as gardens or fine lacquerware or theater.

"Father brought most of the detail-work all the way from Kyoto," she continued. "It was more a matter of pride than anything else. Hardly anyone out here can recognize genuine craftsmanship." Though her quiet chuckle covered the silence that hung in the air after she'd mentioned the city's name, it couldn't hide the anxiety in her eyes or dispel the feeling that she'd said too much. "But of course, such things hardly matter now."

There was, of course, no standard reply for such a statement, no bland socially-acceptable phrase to toss into the air and hide behind. Not that he had much use for such words anyhow. "Have you ever been to Kyoto yourself?"

If the question seemed somewhat out-of-place, she didn't appear to notice. "Only once. And I was too little to remember it properly." There was a tinge of longing, of nostalgia for a vague childhood impression that slipped away like sand.

"And you live here alone with your brother and the old housekeeper…" He quickly shifted the conversation away from the city of his past before unwanted memories could resurface.

"For the past two years," she replied. "We manage just fine." Though her voice remained congenial, it did not invite further questions.

So he nodded, and with a smile only slightly forced, he turned back toward the main section of the garden. "Please tell me what I can do to pay for my stay." If the past years had taught him anything, it was that people were only sincere when they genuinely desired to be, and questions asked in the wrong environment only brought less-than honest answers. And before she could call him back, he'd disappeared into the short mid-morning shadows.

end of part 5

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End file.
